Jackie Robinson and the Jew

The love for my team, made me appreciate the love for my people.

The new movie, “42,” the inspirational story of Jackie Robinson who heroically broke baseball’s color barrier, brought it all back to me.

I admit it. As a kid, I was a crazy Brooklyn Dodgers fan.

An immigrant, a little boy who fled from the horrors of the Holocaust, I couldn’t get enough of the game that was then clearly the national pastime. I desperately wanted to become a real American, and I quickly learned that, in the immortal words of Bill Veek, “For Americans there are only two seasons – winter and baseball.”

My father, a long bearded, scholarly, pious and traditional Jew had a hard time understanding my obsession with baseball. As the Rabbi of a congregation, he thought it more than strange when I would beg him to include the Dodgers in his prayers. He would try to have me explain to him why I felt it was so important for my team to win at something that was no more than a game, concluding his bewilderment with the proverbial question, “But is it good for the Jews?”

They were the underdogs – probably the main reason why a Jewish kid like me identified with them so strongly.

Yet living in Brooklyn I couldn’t help but absorb at least some of the culture of my neighborhood. Even a yeshiva boy knew growing up meant sharing the joys, and far more often the pains, of rooting for a team affectionately known as the Bums of Brooklyn. Yes, in the early ‘40s the Brooklyn Dodgers were mainly inept, hapless and helpless. They were the underdogs. And that was probably one of the main reasons why a Jewish kid like me identified with them so strongly.

Anti-Semitism was an ever present reality in those days. Walking to yeshiva through an Italian neighborhood would regularly mean taunts and curses, if not actual beatings, for me – just as my beloved team had to bear the scorn and prejudice of fans fortunate enough to have more respectable clubs representing them.

Even though I lived in Brooklyn there was nothing to stop me from becoming a fan of the despicable New York Giants or, God forbid, the even more hated New York Yankees. But that would’ve been almost akin to spiritual conversion. You don’t give up your faith just because it’s difficult to be a Jew – and you certainly don’t change your baseball allegiance just because your home team is going through a terrible season.

My Dodgers were underdogs who suffered at the hands of those physically stronger and more adept. As a Jew how could I not empathize and idolize them?

And then came 1947 and the daring move by Brooklyn Dodger owner Branch Rickey to sign Jackie Robinson to play as the first African-American in the major leagues. It marked the end of segregation in professional sports but for Brooklyn it turned out to be something far more meaningful.

At the end of Robinson's rookie season with the Brooklyn Dodgers, he had become National League Rookie of the Year with 12 homers, a league-leading 29 steals, and a .297 average. In 1949, he was selected as the NL's Most Valuable player of the Year and also won the batting title with a .342 average. As a result of his great success, Jackie was eventually inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1962. And the Dodgers won pennants in1947,1949,1952, and1953.

For the first time the long-suffering cries of Brooklyn Dodgers fans at the end of every season of disappointment to “Wait until next year” – a mantra with an almost eerie parallel to the Jewish hope for salvation expressed annually by the words “Next year in Jerusalem” – seemed no longer appropriate. Next year was this year. The Brooklyn Dodgers were winners.

But my Jewish connection nonetheless became even stronger. True, we were no longer underdogs; my emotional connection was no more based on a sense of mutual recognition of enmity from “the others” for a team it was fashionable mock and to ridicule. But how could I as a Jew not empathize with the incredible courage of the star player of my team who was taunted and tested, loathed and isolated, physically injured and harmed – just because he was a member of a racial minority. His “disability” was color; mine was religion. And so of course I rooted for the Dodgers all the more. In a sense they were “the Jews” of baseball.

And Jackie Robinson became my second favorite player on the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Hank Greenberg & Goody Rosen

Yes, in spite of my adulation of the talents of clearly the best player on the team as well as my admiration for Robinson’s struggle to cure baseball’s bigotry, there was another player I chose as my all-time hero. And that is a story I need to share because of the way it brought my obsession with baseball to an incredible conclusion.

The Dodgers not only had an African-American on the team, they had an actual Jew. Sure, there had been some Jews in the major leagues, a rare few with exceptional records. We knew all about Hank Greenberg, the Jewish first baseman for the Detroit Tigers whose nickname was “the Hebrew Hammer.” We were in awe of the famous story of how, in 1934, out of respect to Jewish tradition he refused to play on Yom Kippur even though the Tigers were in the middle of a pennant race and he was not in practice a religious Jew. But Greenberg was not a Dodger. He was a member of our tribe but not of our team.

I needed a hero from the club I idolized. Not just Jackie, but a Jew. And finally Goody Rosen, the son of Russian Jewish immigrants, a left-handed centerfielder of no more than moderate ability – in baseball terms, “he had trouble batting his weight” – joined the team and enjoyed the rabid and total devotion of a Rabbi’s son.

Here I need to tell you what my total support as a fan meant. I was too poor to be able to afford buying a ticket to get into Ebbet’s Field. The closest contact I had with my heroes was to peddle my bicycle from my home in Borough Park, a one hour trek, in order to camp out in the parking lot adjoining the outfield fence. From there I could hear the roar of the crowd, feel some of the excitement of the game, and stand in wait for an opportunity to retrieve the rare but possible ball that might be hit out of the park.

I desperately wanted a major league baseball. But not just any baseball. My dream, my fantasy, was to salvage a ball knocked out of the park by my “Jewish brother”. A home run ball by Goody Rosen would indeed be a miracle – especially since they were so very infrequent – but with the optimism of youth I persevered in my mission.

And of course I was never successful. My dream remained unfulfilled.

Fast-forward two decades. I am now a Rabbi with a congregation of my own. I have many serious responsibilities. One day I officiate at a funeral for a prominent person who met an untimely death. I eulogize him as befits the good life that he led and attempt to offer some comfort by referring to Judaism’s belief in life after death.

The mourners are grateful for my remarks. Other people step forward to tell me how much my words meant to them. One of them, a stranger to me, takes a little more time than the others to convey what my talk meant to him. He expresses to me how much he admires my faith and my ability to communicate my thoughts with such spiritual impact. I find it extremely humbling and complimentary to have him tell me, “I envy you; I wish I had your talent.”

Shortly after he leaves, a member of my congregation says to me, “Do you know who that was that was just talking to you? He used to be a major league ballplayer who played for the Brooklyn Dodgers. His name is Goody Rosen.”

And that’s when I realized that in the grand scheme of things when I add up my blessings from God, the gifts of my faith and my heritage are worth more than even a World Series grand slam home run – although I never did get that ball I wanted.

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About the Author

Rabbi Benjamin Blech, a frequent contributor to Aish, is a Professor of Talmud at Yeshiva University and an internationally recognized educator, religious leader, and lecturer. Author of 14 highly acclaimed books with combined sales of over a half million copies, his newest, The World From A Spiritual Perspective, is a collection of over 100 of his best Aish articles. See his website at www.benjaminblech.com.

Visitor Comments: 9

(7)
Sarah C.,
May 14, 2014 9:34 AM

rabbi, you got that ball !

(6)
miike,
April 24, 2013 5:12 PM

my two hero!s

i went to many games at ebbets field.i used to wait at the stairs for them to come out at the end of the game. there is a room in my house srictly for my dodger nostalgia, what great memories and no better fans

sander postol,
April 25, 2013 5:00 PM

re: the dodguhs!

What a wonderful story! Thanks!

(5)
Emanuel Fineberg,
April 24, 2013 4:29 PM

Wonderful article

Your identification with the underdog Bklyn Dodgers Rabbi, of course, is similar to my own. How could any Jew avoid that identification growing up in the late 40's and early to Mid-fifties. G-d was good in allowing us to witniess the 1955 World Series win (thank you Johnny Podres) over the hated NY Yankees in addition to the NL Pennant wins you mention. Thank you for crediting Jackie as a brave and courageous ballplayer who overcame one of the most hatefful prejudices in our society. You brought back so many of my wonderful memories about the "Boys of Summer" Thank you.

(4)
Raymond Krasnick,
April 24, 2013 3:15 AM

Being a Dodger fan

I can remember when the announcement came that Jackie Robinson would be joining the team, my all time favorite Dixie Walker refused to play with him and my favorite player was no longer my favorite player.

(3)
jacob,
April 23, 2013 7:15 PM

Dodgers player Sandy Koufax

Sandy Koufax (pitcher) played for the L. A. Dodgers and he missed a playoff World Series game on Yom Kipur. Believe it was on the 60´s

Michael,
April 24, 2013 8:27 AM

That's right

He missed Game 1 of the 1965 World Series because it was the first day of Rosh HaShanah and Game 1 of the 1966 World Series because it was Yom Kippur.

(2)
Jose Martinez,
April 22, 2013 5:08 PM

Thank you for sharing this with us I was born the same year Ebbetts Field was torn down (1960) and how I wish I could have seen a game at that park just once. has anyone in your congregation asked you to include their team in your prayers?

(1)
Rho,
April 21, 2013 3:26 PM

My hero

Jackie is my hero of all time. In fact, I used to talk to him every day on my lunch hour when he worked at Chock Full o' nuts. Such a nice man.

I'm told that it's a mitzvah to become intoxicated on Purim. This puzzles me, because to my understanding, it is not considered a good thing to become intoxicated, period.

One of the characteristics of the at-risk youth is their use of drugs, including alcohol. In my experience, getting drunk doesn't reveal secrets. It makes people act stupid and irresponsible, doing things they would never do if they were sober. Also, I know a lot about the horrible health effects of abusing alcohol, because I work at a research center that focuses on addiction and substance abuse.

Also, I am an alcoholic, which means that if I drink, very bad things happen. I have not had a drink in 22 years, and I have no intention of starting now. Surely there must be instances where a person is excused from the obligation to drink. I don't see how Judaism could ever promote the idea of getting drunk. It just doesn't seem right.

The Aish Rabbi Replies:

Putting aside for a moment all the spiritual and philosophical reasons for getting drunk on Purim, this remains an issue of common sense. Of course, teenagers should be warned of the dangers of acute alcohol ingestion. Of course, nobody should drink and drive. Of course, nobody should become so drunk to the point of negligence in performing mitzvot. And of course, a recovering alcoholic should not partake of alcohol on Purim.

Indeed, the Code of Jewish Law explicitly says that if one suspects the drinking may affect him negatively, then he should NOT drink.

Getting drunk on Purim is actually one of the most difficult mitzvot to do correctly. A person should only drink if it will lead to positive spiritual results - e.g. under the loosening affect of the alcohol, greater awareness will surface of the love for God and Torah found deep in the heart. (Perhaps if we were on a higher spiritual level, we wouldn't need to get drunk!)

Yet the Talmud still speaks of an obligation on Purim of "not knowing the difference between Blessed is Mordechai and Cursed is Haman." How then should a person who doesn't drink get the point of “not knowing”? Simple - just go to sleep! (Rama - OC 695:2)

All this applies to individuals. But the question remains - does drinking on Purim adversely affect the collective social health of the Jewish community?

The aversion to alcoholism is engrained into Jewish consciousness from a number of Biblical and Talmudic sources. There are the rebuking words of prophets - Isaiah 28:1, Hosea 3:1 with Rashi, and Amos 6:6, and the Zohar says that "The wicked stray after wine" (Midrash Ne'alam Parshat Vayera).

It is well known that the rate of alcoholism among Jews has historically been very low. Numerous medical, psychological and sociological studies have confirmed this. The connection between Judaism and sobriety is so evident, that the following conversation is reported by Lawrence Kelemen in "Permission to Receive":

When Dr. Mark Keller, editor of the Quarterly Journal of Studies on Alcohol, commented that "practically all Jews do drink, and yet all the world knows that Jews hardly ever become alcoholics," his colleague, Dr. Howard Haggard, director of Yale's Laboratory of Applied Physiology, jokingly proposed converting alcoholics to the Jewish religion in order to immerse them in a culture with healthy attitudes toward drinking!

Perhaps we could suggest that it is precisely because of the use of alcohol in traditional ceremonies (Kiddush, Bris, Purim, etc.), that Jews experience such low rates of alcoholism. This ceremonial usage may actually act like an inoculation - i.e. injecting a safe amount that keeps the disease away.

Of course, as we said earlier, all this needs to be monitored with good common sense. Yet in my personal experience - having been in the company of Torah scholars who were totally drunk on Purim - they acted with extreme gentleness and joy. Amid the Jewish songs and beautiful words of Torah, every year the event is, for me, very special.

Adar 12 marks the dedication of Herod's renovations on the second Holy Temple in Jerusalem in 11 BCE. Herod was king of Judea in the first century BCE who constructed grand projects like the fortresses at Masada and Herodium, the city of Caesarea, and fortifications around the old city of Jerusalem. The most ambitious of Herod's projects was the re-building of the Temple, which was in disrepair after standing over 300 years. Herod's renovations included a huge man-made platform that remains today the largest man-made platform in the world. It took 10,000 men 10 years just to build the retaining walls around the Temple Mount; the Western Wall that we know today is part of that retaining wall. The Temple itself was a phenomenal site, covered in gold and marble. As the Talmud says, "He who has not seen Herod's building, has never in his life seen a truly grand building."

Some people gauge the value of themselves by what they own. But in reality, the entire concept of ownership of possessions is based on an illusion. When you obtain a material object, it does not become part of you. Ownership is merely your right to use specific objects whenever you wish.

How unfortunate is the person who has an ambition to cleave to something impossible to cleave to! Such a person will not obtain what he desires and will experience suffering.

Fortunate is the person whose ambition it is to acquire personal growth that is independent of external factors. Such a person will lead a happy and rewarding life.

With exercising patience you could have saved yourself 400 zuzim (Berachos 20a).

This Talmudic proverb arose from a case where someone was fined 400 zuzim because he acted in undue haste and insulted some one.

I was once pulling into a parking lot. Since I was a bit late for an important appointment, I was terribly annoyed that the lead car in the procession was creeping at a snail's pace. The driver immediately in front of me was showing his impatience by sounding his horn. In my aggravation, I wanted to join him, but I saw no real purpose in adding to the cacophony.

When the lead driver finally pulled into a parking space, I saw a wheelchair symbol on his rear license plate. He was handicapped and was obviously in need of the nearest parking space. I felt bad that I had harbored such hostile feelings about him, but was gratified that I had not sounded my horn, because then I would really have felt guilty for my lack of consideration.

This incident has helped me to delay my reactions to other frustrating situations until I have more time to evaluate all the circumstances. My motives do not stem from lofty principles, but from my desire to avoid having to feel guilt and remorse for having been foolish or inconsiderate.

Today I shall...

try to withhold impulsive reaction, bearing in mind that a hasty act performed without full knowledge of all the circumstances may cause me much distress.

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